The RanDumb Adventures of an Irish Guy in LA!

In Case You Didn’t Know…

I can be quite dumb at times. Firstly, apologies for the lack of blogaruu yesterday but I was busy being stupid, then getting drunk, and finally stupidly drunk, so the blogaruu was neglected. Whereas on Tuesday I figured out I have a 3 minute limit for being funny in one day, yesterday I figured out my smart limit is about the same length of time.

Back to dumb mode. You might think I was dumb yesterday for leaving my wallet at home when I headed off to be productive. However, just as I was about to walk the 25 minutes back to my house and get it, I copped on there was no money in it anyways, so I was better off not having the bulky thing weighing me down. Smart choice. Surely.

After I falsely presumed that I knew where I was going, without ever having been there before, and could not find my destination, I decided to make the smart choice and ask for directions. Outside a coffee shop, I had two choices. Homeless bum dude, or a hot girl. I would’ve went homeless dude but the last one I interacted with swung a punch at me, so hot girl it was, tut.

Hubbula hubbula, do you know where this place is that I cannot find? “Oh my gaaaawd, where are you from? Russia?” Ha, no, that was English, I am from Ireland. “Maryland?” I R Land. “Oh my gawd, I R Land, that is so cool.” The usual spiel I get. So, she didn’t know where the building was, sorry. But she did invite me in for a coffee and maybe they would know inside. Sure thing, sounds good, my round… actually, I can’t. I remembered now that I had forgotten my wallet and had no money on me. Instead of telling her this when she asked why I couldn’t come in and have a coffee with her, I just blurted out – I have no money. I meant on me, not in life terms, although not too far off. She informs me that they’ll accept credit cards, I respond by telling her I don’t have one. Again, I meant on me. Not in the global sense.

Telling her this, and then trying to explain what I meant, while standing next to a homeless guy, just led to a nice bit of awkward silence. Awkward enough for her to remember she had to be somewhere else anyways. I did not mind too much, I was out to be productive, I had to find the place. Eventually, and with a bit of help from the homeless dude, ha, sound guy, I found the building I was looking for, the BAFTA building!

You might think I am quite dumb for not going to this place before. It has been on my list of 19 things to do, but I had emailed them, so kind of thought that was enough. Why did I not call down earlier?! In I go, get a load of information, possibility of help with a visa, contacts, names, numbers, the works. I am also advised to go to the Irish Film Board Office as well, which I then find out it is literally around the corner from where I live, as in a 2 minute walk from my house, why have I not been already?! I come out a bit pumped, but still wondering why I had not been there before, dumb old me.

All the help I was given was from an Irish girl who worked there, the first Irish person I have met in L.A. No need to tune out my words with her, she’s actually Irish like myself. Worryingly, when she asked me my name again as I walked out, she thought I said Eric, then Mack. Not a good sign from an Irish person. As I walked home, with my iPod on, I decided to practice honing out my accent, beginning with my name. So, I began saying Mark, Mork, Moaark, Maaark, Mooork, More Ark, Mork, Mark, all the way home to the tune of the song I was listening to. When the song finished up, I could hear some foot-steps behind me. Turn around, a girl is about 2 yards behind me. Didn’t I see her just as I turned the corner onto this long straight street? Indeed I did, she has been behind me all along. Listening to me saying my name over and over.

We both stop at the light to wait and cross the road. I look at her, wondering if she heard me talking to myself the whole time. She looks back, I give her a how’s it going nod, and I see she did hear me the whole time. Seeing as she asks “Who’s Mork? You must really like him, or his name.” Yeah, Mork is actually me, I love myself. This gets a laugh from her, bit of small talk, walking along, chatter chatter chatter, and we come to another junction, where I am swinging a right. I have already told her that I am going out boozing later, heading to My House, and been told she is going there too. So, when she asks me to text her later, take her number, I don’t for two reasons. Well, I don’t put it in my phone, instead I pretend to memorize it.

I have realized that it means absolutely nothing, when a girl gives you her number in L.A. As in nothing. She would’ve given it to the homeless dude if he had an accent. Whereas in Ireland, if a girl gives you her number, it probably means she wants to take advantage of you, ha. Here, however, it just means now instead of asking you to your face “Who are you and what do you?”, they can do it by text. And then be confused and disappointed with the reply “I am homeless and unemployed, call over if you like” text. So I have given up taking numbers unless I think it actually might be worth it. Hot girls can be seen at every corner and walking the streets of L.A everyday, there is not a shortage here. Pity they’re whures though. Still hot.

Second reason that I pretended to remember the number, was that she had already told me that she was going to the same club that night, without me prompting her. If she was there, happy days, if not, the club is fully equipped with an abundance of good looking girls. So before I headed there, went to the karaoke bar, beer bong on, free shots because I am Irish on, pitcher on. Headed to the club, and, lo and behold, I bumped into the girl. Who then introduced me to her boyfriend! See, funking stupid, delighted I didn’t take her number now, I knew I was being smart! Being honest, I can’t remember much after that, they bought me a round of whiskey shots for being Irish and off I went.

However, and this was the whole point of the post, to highlight the dumbness, I do remember this. Got a cab home, with Andy and Colin Todd, and dropped off at the top of my street. Usually this is fine, 30 second walk and I am home. Things have changed though. Here is why…

The strip club at the top of my street re-opening would do that, especially seeing as it is opened until the wee hours of the morning. So the cab drops me off, I see the flashing lights of the club, mosey on over. It is $20 to get in, bob hope I have that left on me at this stage of the night. Banter with the bouncer, for a change I convince him that he is actually Irish, and get let in for free.

Being a tad drunk, all I remember is walking into the club, around the club once for a lap, then leaving, not sure why to be honest, I think I realized I was twisted and should head home. I am getting a few flashbacks writing this alone, so maybe I did sit down somewhere for a while in there. I also just got a flashback of having banter with the guy who used to be in ‘N Sync. Not Justin Timberlake, or the fat guy, or the gay guy, the other main guy? I can’t really remember.

I do know that as I was walking back out the door, having banter with the bouncer, asking if they need a DJ, sorry, slurring if they needed a DJ, a girl working had followed me out, and tried to drag me back in for a dance. Not a slow dance on the dance floor though, or a dance where I could show off my “Timmy the Rabbit” dance. I was presuming she wanted me to give her money to “dance” for me. I told her no, had to go home, I live just over there, I am sure I’ll be back again (I was lying, I swear). Again “Oh my gawd, where are you from, that accent is so cool.” The bouncer answered enthusiastically on my behalf “Irish, this f**ker is I R ish!!!”… “Oh my gawd, you must come back again, we should hang out, thats so cool” I was feeling tremendously twisted at this stage, so told her I had to go home, now, ciao ciao. “Ok, but you better come back, what’s your number, I want to hang out.” So, seeing as I had wasted my 3 minutes of being smart on blagging my way in for free, I dumbly, yet funnily in my book, replied with the answer “4, sometimes it’s 7 though depends what jersey I get.”

Ha, that line is priceless, but it left the girl confused. At least the bouncer laughed. Then, once the girl went back inside, he asked me why I didn’t give her my number, she had just broken up with her boyfriend, plus did I not see what she looked like?!!! I could make out the outline of her in my twisted state, but the real reason I did not give her my real number, the real reason… I can be quite dumb at times.

Here’s the song I think I was listening to in the strip club, not fully sure though so it might have just being playing over in my head… I Want You So Hard by Eagles Of Death Metal